


Preparatory School Stories

by AccidentalAccount



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Bullying, Gen, Injury, Military School, Storms, pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccidentalAccount/pseuds/AccidentalAccount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively titled: "The Little Badass: Early Years"</p><p>Chapter 2: "Your name is Ellie Williams, you turn six in two months, and you will not pass the morning inspection."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> I realize I have no following on this site. Will that stop me from continuing to post my shit? Not in a million fucking years.

Your name is Ellie  _fucking_  Williams, you are five and a half years old, and you are  _not_  scared of a little thunder.

That's what you tell yourself as you shiver under your thin blanket in the children's ward, anyway.

Thunder booms again and you curl up tighter on your cot, but you're  _not_  crying because soldiers don't cry.  _You're not crying._  The ceiling is obviously leaking again, like it does every time there's a storm, and that's why your cheeks are wet and your eyes sting.

_Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers don't cry._

A squeaky gasp escapes you when the walls shake with the next bright flash. You feel the tremor—something ancient and terrifying and  _angry_ discontent to merely be heard, demanding to be felt as well—in your bones.

_Soldiers don't cry. It's just a storm. Soldiers don't cry._

You squeeze your eyes shut and pull the blanket over your head. You are  _not_  scared. The storm can't hurt you. It's just a bunch of water and dust and electricity. You will  _not_  hide under your cot again. You will  _not_  get caught curled up in the supply closet with your blanket. You will  _not_  look for Lieutenant Hughes, who not only is the only person that doesn't make fun of you for being afraid, but is actually  _nice_  to you. Because you're  _not_  afraid. You're not afraid, and you're not crying.

_Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers don't—_

The walls shake with the force of the thunder again and you roll out of bed, clutching the blanket to your chest. You look around the barracks, ashamed, to make sure no one is awake to see you in this moment of weakness, and you dart to the door leading to the hallway.

Cautiously, you ease open the door and slip out, blinking in the harsh fluorescent lights. A chill runs up your spine. The empty hallways have always been unnerving to you. As a matter of fact, you're starting to feel quite silly standing in the hallway, alone, where you're not supposed to be, your ears ringing with the silence that should be the sound of your fellows breathing. You start to open the door to the barracks again. Storms aren't so ba—

The lights go out as thunder crashes and you nearly jump out of your skin, your socks slipping on the slick linoleum floor. You fall and land on your rump, but the dull throb of pain in your tailbone is nothing compared to the surge of panic you feel next.

At some point, you had let go of the blanket.

Blind and terror-stricken, you pat the cold floor around you, searching for the scratchy cloth that has been your companion no matter what. Relief is almost enough to overpower the fear accompanies the next roll of thunder that booms just as your fingers land on fabric.

You scoot back so your spine is pressed against the wall and bury your face in the blanket, shaking and  _not_  crying.

A bright light pierces the barrier of your blanket and you tense, expecting thunder, but the light remains constant and there is only a quiet sigh of resignation.

"Oh, Ellie…"

You lift your head and squint in the bright light. Lieutenant Hughes settles down on the floor next to you, putting down his flashlight. He sighs again and rubs his face.

"What am I going to do with you…?"

You hunch your shoulders and toy with a loose thread on the blanket. The last time he was caught being too nice to you, you didn't see him for two weeks and he came back with his arm in a sling. You're half-tempted to run down the hall and catch the attention of another soldier, knowing Hughes would chase after you. The other soldier would only see you running away, and Hughes doing his job. Hughes wouldn't get in trouble again if you did this, but your bones feel heavy and your shoulders sting with phantom pain just thinking about it.

You look up when he chuckles bitterly to himself. "Fuck it."

He moves into a crouch and scoops you up, balancing you on his hip as he stands. Thunder booms again and you throw one of your little arms around Hughes' neck, the other clutching your blanket tightly.

"Shh. It's okay. We're okay," he croons, opening the door to the barracks. "The thunder can't get us. We're safe."

Where your own assurances had failed, Hughes' succeed, and you find yourself starting to relax. He carries you to your bunk and lays you down, then crouches beside you and gently eases the blanket from your grip. You let him; you know he wouldn't do anything to hurt it.

"You don't need to be scared of thunder anymore," Hughes says tossing the blanket over you and pulling it up to your shoulders. "You know why?"

He looks at you expectantly and smooths back your hair.

"Why?"

He smiles. "Because you're Ellie  _fucking_  Williams, and you have a blanket that can protect you from storms. As long as you have it, you're safe."

You look down at your light blue blanket, chewing your lip in thought. Decided, you pull off the blanket and hold it out to Hughes. His brow furrows in confusion.

"What? Why are you giving me this?"

You know all about how dangerous soldiering is. They tell you about it in school, and there are diagrams and pictures of what happens to bad soldiers. If the blanket would keep  _you_  safe, surely it would also keep other people safe. Unfortunately, as you are five and a half years old, the best you can do to express this sentiment is a single word.

"Safe," you say.

Hughes gapes for a second, then closes his mouth and clears his throat. You think you see a couple of tears spill down his cheeks as he smiles and pushes your hand away, but that's impossible. Soldiers don't cry.

"I, ah, appreciate the sentiment, Ellie," he says. He clears his throat again and laughs quietly. "But the blanket only works for you."

"Why?"

"Because it's yours."

"Nuh-uh. Ferd..Feds..F-E-D-R-A's." You point at the tag on the blanket that reads, 'Property of FEDRA.' "Says so."

Hughes frowns and rips off the tag. "Now it's Ellie's."

You stare at the place the tag used to be, amazed. They had always told you to never touch the tags on any of the blankets or clothing. Now you know  _why._  If it didn't have their name on it, it wasn't theirs anymore.

You hug the blanket to your chest and turn your wide eyes on Hughes. "...Mine?"

He makes a noise similar to the one you used to make when  _you_  cried—you learned how to stop making it when it woke other people up and they pulled on your hair and hit you—but he's laughing, too. He nods and smooths back your hair again. "Yeah. It's yours, kiddo. But the power stops working if you tell anyone about it, so keep this between us. Never ever tell anyone. Okay?"

You nod very seriously and bury your nose in the fabric. "Never ever."

Hughes sighs shakily and wipes his eyes. "Go to sleep now, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

You smile and nod, curling up on your side. You toss a portion of the blanket over your legs, but hug the rest of it. "'Kay."

He smiles back and stands up, then crosses the room to the door. He's gone just as the next peal of thunder booms out, but you don't jump.

Your name is Ellie  _fucking_  Williams, you are five and a half years old, and you are  _not_  scared of a little thunder.


	2. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look who finally posted! Eh...heh...Sorry for the delay. I can only really write on weekends, and those have been full up with a metric fuckton of homework, lately. Without further ado, chapter 2 of Preparatory School Stories.

Your name is Ellie Williams, you turn six in two months, and you will not pass the morning inspection.

Again.

You've managed to pull on and button your gray fatigues, but your pants are stuffed sloppily into your boots, which remain untied, and your shirt is creased and wrinkled from the scuffle the night before.

Your usual tormentors, Stacy Whitehall and Charlotte Jones, occasionally accompanied by a couple of the other nastier temperaments, have recently moved on from merely degrading and hitting you. They now find it funny to alter or damage your uniform while you sleep, and let Warrant Officer Woolvey cane you for the dress code infractions. Last night, you caught Whitehall and Jones giggling over your shirt with a pair of scissors. You hit one—you don't remember which—and then you were on the ground, bodily pinned by Jamison Greene, the biggest girl in the barracks. Then Whitehall broke your fingers; first and third on your right hand, second and fourth on your left.

"Are your hands broken or did I hit you too hard the last time this happened, Williams?" Woolvey asks conversationally as he walks up. You see his steely gray eyes flick to your hands, but despite the urge to hide them, you remain at attention.

You say nothing, respectfully avoiding eye contact by staring over Woolvey's left shoulder. He frowns and his bushy mustache bristles.

"Hold out your hands, Cadet."

You hesitate and accidentally make eye contact. Woolvey's eyes narrow and you stick out your hands just as he starts to lift the cane he carries at his side. He doesn't even twitch when he sees the swollen, purple joints; he just motions to the nameless Private in the corner, who snaps to attention.

"Escort Williams to the infirmary. But tie her goddamn shoes, first."

"Yes, sir," the Private barks, crisply saluting. He crosses to you in three strides and kneels down in the same motion, smooth and graceful. You envy that grace for a moment, then you catch sight of Whitehall and Jones sharing a smirk and you lower your head, your face burning with shame. They've won, and they know it. This is it for you; you've had fifteen dress code violations in the past two weeks, which was four more than the amount you could be lashed for.

Not caned. Flogged.

You've seen a flogging, once. The victim was much older than you were, probably close to aging out, at any rate, with the crime of striking his drill instructor. He'd gotten three licks from the whip. Mild, considering, but  _one_  was enough to scare you silly. Now the Private is going to take you to the infirmary where The Doctor—he's long since lost his name to all but the superior officers you only hear mentioned in passing—would decide if you are fit enough to take the lashing.

You feel fearful tears prickle your eyes but stubbornly refuse to let them fall.

_Soldiers don't cry._

Woolvey slaps the cane across your shoulders to get you moving and you automatically fall into a quickstep behind the Private, who is already halfway to the door. Your shoulders smart, but that was a mere tap compared to how hard he's hit you before.

Every now and then the Private turns his head to look back at you, though you aren't sure why. It isn't like you have anywhere to go if you bolted, nor are you particularly quiet with your boots clunking noisily on the tile. After perhaps two and a half minutes of walking, the Private finally pushes open the door to the infirmary and hustles you inside.

"Doc!" he shouts. Cold dread coils in your gut and you stand very still.

A clatter of metal comes from a back room and The Doctor emerges, brushing invisible dust off his coat. He sees you and smiles kindly, but the warmth is offset by his beady black eyes that remind you of a picture of a scorpion you found in Science class.

"And who would this young lady be?" he asks, not looking away from you. The Private nudges your shoulder. You come to attention.

"Cadet Ellie Williams, _sir,"_  you reply stiffly, and again have to remind yourself that soldiers don't cry.

The Doctor frowns and beckons you toward a patient bed covered in a thin sheet of plastic, and the Private makes his exit.

"I'm not a 'Sir,' Cadet. I'm a civilian doctor that happens to work with soldiers. So just call me Doc." He winks in what he probably thinks is a charming manner, but it only unsettles you further. "Sit on the bed for me. I just need a minute to find your file."

You cautiously ease yourself up onto the bed and perch there precariously, your hands folded in your lap despite the pain. You didn't know civilians worked with FEDRA.

The Doctor riffles through his cabinets and eventually emerges with a plain, thin manila folder. He opens it and says, "I see you'll be turning six in two months."

You think a reply might be required, so you say, "Yes s—Doc."

He glances up, then looks down again and flips the page. "Have any plans with your friends for it?"

You aren't sure what he means and you shift anxiously. "No, Doc."

He looks up again and sets aside your file, then crosses the room to you.

"Give me your hand," The Doctor says. You hold out your right hand, and he continues talking as he pokes at it, testing the bruises and sending sharp spirals of pain up your wrist. "Why not?"

"I don't have friends, Doc."

"Piffle. What almost-six-year-old doesn't have friends?"

You stay quiet. It's a good question. Everyone  _else_  has friends.

But you know what makes you different: you're too small, you're too freckled, your hair is too red and your eyes are too green and you try too hard to do well in class, which everyone knows doesn't really matter anyway. You never laugh at things other people laugh at, you read too much, and you're too quiet. You're weak and dumb and slow and you heard Corporal Taylor and Corporal Valdez making bets on who would die before they ever aged out, with you at the very top of the list.

You don't realize you're shaking until The Doctor puts his hands on your shoulders and forces you to look at him.

"Williams, what's wrong? Is there something other than your hands?"

You blink stupidly and childishly long for your blanket. "No," you say, finally registering what The Doctor asked.

Then, in a lapse of control, you blurt out, "Am I going to be lashed?"

_"What!?"_

Your head snaps up at the sound of the familiar voice and if it hadn't been for The Doctor's iron grip you would have slid off the table and bounced around the newcomer like an excitable puppy. You are opening your mouth to greet him when he swings into view, but the words die in your throat.

Blood stains Hughes' uniform, plastering the fabric to his neck and splattered across a Kevlar vest he hasn't taken off yet. His face is flushed and his eyes have the same sparking, angry quality Whitehall's did when she broke your fingers. He turns to you with that look and it's all you can do to keep from quailing.

"What did you say?"

"I...I…" You choke on your words and scoot away from The Doctor and Hughes, drawing your knees up to your chest.

_"What did you say?"_

"Lieutenant!"

Hughes turns and The Doctor grabs his vest and hauls him away into the back room. You hear quiet, angry voices, but can't distinguish the words.

You hug your legs and try to will the shaking away. Hughes isn't angry with you. He couldn't be, could he? You didn't say anything wrong; you didn't mention the blanket to anyone. But you did get pulled out of lineup to come  _here._  Is Hughes angry with you about that?

You flinch at the thought. You _tried_  to fight them. You really did. You tried to stand up for yourself like Hughes told you to before he left last week on a trip Outside with a small squad.

But...you look down at your hands. You're weak. You're a failure.

The Doctor comes out of the back room alone.

You remember the slideshow presentation on how dangerous civilians can be, then shove the thought out of your head. The Doctor works for FEDRA.

He crosses the room and picks up your left hand, roughly examining and prodding the sites of the breaks. You bite your tongue and keep as expressionless as possible. Soldiers don't cry, after all.

He lets go of your hand and sighs. "It's obvious those breaks are intentional, but not self-inflicted. Who did it?"

You stay quiet. It doesn't matter; they won't be punished. The grown-ups would only punish them if they saw you being hit.

The Doctor sighs again and walks off a few steps, then beckons to you. You slide off of the bed and follow him into a different small room with a strange white box with a lens on it supported by a mechanical arm hovering over a table. He puts a heavy black bib on you and places your hands on the table, then adjusts the mechanical arm so the lens is above your hands.

"Stay still," he warns, retreating behind a barrier. A few seconds pass where the machine hums, then thunks loudly like someone dropped something heavy inside of it, and then he tells you to turn your hands sideways, so your thumbs point toward the lens, and to curl your undamaged fingers inward.

You obey, and the machine hums-thunks again. The Doctor comes into the room and relieves you of the bib, then takes you back into the main infirmary.

You warily look over at Hughes, who is sitting on the edge of a bed in fresh clothing, but with drying blood still coating his neck and parts of his hair. He looks up, and you are relieved to see that horrible look gone from his eyes, returning them to a kind blue. He stands.

The Doctor shoots him a look, then says to you, "Hang around out here, Cadet. I'll get you patched up as soon as those x-rays develop."

You nod, and The Doctor leaves the room. Hughes crosses over to you and stops just outside of arm's reach, looking haggard and older than you thought he actually was.

"I'm sorry, Ellie," he says quietly, reaching out to you.

You don't close the distance and instead watch him closely. He sighs and drops his hand, and crouches so he's at eye-level with you.

"I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you."

You measure him for a long moment, because that's what you've read about people doing to other people they like who've scared them. Not that you were scared. You don't know what you're measuring, or if there's anything to be measured at all, but you feel sufficiently satisfied with his apology and shuffle close enough to lay your head on his shoulder.

"What're you mad at?" you ask. Hughes sighs again and strokes your back comfortingly.

"FEDRA."

You lift your head and look at him, bewildered. "But  _we're_  FED-RA."

Hughes chuckles tiredly. "You know how you asked if you were going to get lashed?"

You hunch your shoulders and hide your face in the junction of his neck. "Yes."

"You're not. Whoever gave you _that_  notion?"

"Handbook," you reply, relaxing slightly as the knot of dread in your stomach starts to unravel. "Uniform infactions, page twenty-three."

"Infractions," Hughes corrects you gently. "And this one doesn't count; injury is a perfectly valid excuse. Besides, everyone knows it isn't your fault."

Your brow wrinkles. Of course it's your fault. If you'd have hidden your clothes better, it wouldn't be happening. "But—"

"No 'buts,' missy. Butts are for sitting."

You giggle and wind your arms around Hughes' neck. He chuckles and squeezes you lightly, then leans back and pulls one of your arms away to inspect your fingers. His expression darkens, reminding you of a thunderstorm.

"So who was it?"

"Who was what?"

Hughes' expression softens to stern. "Don't play dumb, Ellie. It'll work on your instructors and the WOs, but it won't work on me."

You pout and flex your uninjured fingers. "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn't have to deal with things like this."

Your brow furrows again. Are things like this  _not_  normal? "'America loves a winner, and will not tol-er-ate a loser.'"

You aren't sure where you heard it—it may have been said at a grand assembly or parade march—but the quote seems to fit the situation so you don't say anything to take it back.

Hughes jerks back and looks like you've slapped him. Then his expression shifts again and you see hints of the sparking look in his eyes and freeze. Have you done something wrong?

"They're wrong." His voice is flat and hard and you let go of him, taking a few steps back. He looks at you, jaw clenched and stormy-eyed, and you're afraid. "FEDRA is wrong and I don't want you repeating their fucking propaganda again. Understand?"

You don't know what propaganda is and you're more confused than ever, but you're wrong—again—so you nod hastily and hope he stops being angry. Hughes sighs and rubs his forehead, his shoulders sagging. "I...nevermind. I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you. I'm really not. C'mere."

You tuck your thumbs into your pockets and stare down at your boots. You don't want a hug from him right now. You want your blanket, and a small, dark place to curl up in.

Hughes sits back on his heels and you hear him take a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," he says again. "Please don't be upset with me. I'm sorry."

You look up at him, then look away quickly. You did  _not_  see any tears in his eyes. You didn't. Soldiers don't cry. You step forward and rest your head on his shoulder again. You feel him shudder, then he's crushing you to him in a hug with his face buried in your tiny shoulder.

Apparently soldiers  _do_  cry.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Hughes goes on repeating that, but you get the feeling the apology is no longer directed at you. You hug him back and clumsily stroke his hair like he always has done for you. But his hair is sticky with blood and the brown-turned-black strands snag on your broken fingers. It hurts, but you persist until The Doctor calls your name.

You freeze and turn your head to look at him. His face is serious and his scorpion eyes glitter darkly. You don't want to leave Hughes alone; you know what it's like to be left alone while you're crying. It's not a good feeling.

"Lieutenant Hughes," The Doctor calls, his voice sharp. "Release the Cadet. I can't do my job with your interference."

Hughes doesn't respond, save for cutting off his incoherent mumbling. You watch The Doctor and wonder if he actually _is_  a civilian. He stands like a soldier, though he's thinner than any soldier you've seen, and his voice is cool with command.

He pointedly looks between you and Hughes.

"Hughes," you say, carefully untangling your fingers to shake his shoulder. "Hughes. The Doctor has to fix my fingers."

Hesitantly, his arms loosen and you slip out of his grasp with a pang of guilt. You trot over to The Doctor. He says nothing as he leads you down a short hall and into an examination room.

"Wash your hands," he says shortly, sifting through a cabinet above the counter that wraps most of the way around the room. You have to use a chair to reach the sink, sitting on your knees. You carefully rinse the traces of blood from your hands and you're reaching for a hand towel when The Doctor adds, without turning around, "With soap."

You frown, but obey. When you're done, you slide off the chair and push it back into its proper place.

"Sit," The Doctor says as he takes the chair opposite of the one you were using. You do so as he lays out materials. The first thing to be set on the table is a blue sheet of something that's soft on the side facing up, but plastic on the bottom. He instructs you to lay your hands on it, then sets down a roll of medical tape and three different colors of gauze: red, blue, and green.

"Which color do you like better?" he asks, gesturing to the gauze. You point at the red roll, and he sets aside the blue and green.

The Doctor then, without warning, snaps the bones of your first finger back into place. It hurts worse than when Whitehall broke them in the first place, and you jerk your hand back, tears blurring your vision. You cradle your hand against your chest and shrink away when The Doctor reaches for you.

"Take it easy, Cadet," he says quietly, his voice gentle, the command from earlier gone. "I need to set the other three, now."

Reluctantly, you give him your hands and bite your lip against the pain, but that hurts too, so you switch to clenching your jaw so hard your teeth ache.

When he's finished, he measures your fingers with orange measuring tape and scrawls the numbers on the corner of the blue sheet. The Doctor then cuts four lengths off of a strip of thin metal that has foam plastered to one side.

One by one, he fixes the metal to your broken fingers—squishy side against your skin—with medical tape and then wraps them in red gauze.

"Are you going to tell me who did this?" he asks as he works.

"Why is Hughes upset?" you ask instead of answering, pretending you didn't hear him.

The Doctor smooths down a piece of gauze and narrows his eyes thoughtfully at you.

"Tell you what," he says. "I'll tell you why the Lieutenant is upset if you tell me who did this."

You pause and consider this, then decide it would be prudent to find out why he wants to know.

"Why d'you care about who did it?"

He smiles thinly. "Because I don't like having to treat children."

You don't quite understand what he means, but you let it go for now.

"What's going to happen if I tell you?" you ask.

"I'm going to write a strongly worded letter to the Major."

You stiffen and watch The Doctor with wide eyes.

"No. No, no, no. You can't do that."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Is he  _stupid?_  No one, repeat,  _no one_ , talks to the Major about anything short of a direct attack on military personnel or the school itself.

"Because it's the  _Major,"_  you hiss urgently. "He  _matters."_

His other dark eyebrow creeps up to join the first. "Are you saying  _you_  don't matter?"

"Yes!"

And you don't. Not in the grand scheme of things. You're a  _Cadet._  You wouldn't dream of coming within spitting distance of the Major, much less purposefully drawing his attention to you.

"Williams—"

"You  _can't_  write to the Major," you interrupt, and the back of your neck prickles uneasily at having done so. Whitehall interrupted Woolvey once, and he used his cane on her. But The Doctor is a civilian, and that means he's different. You don't think he has the power to punish you, but in light of the way he talked to Hughes, your next statement, instead of coming out strong and clear, is a weak, uncertain mumble: "I won't tell unless you promise not to."

The Doctor sits back in his chair and watches you for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Fine," he says eventually.

"Promise."

He sighs heavily and says, "I  _promise_  I won't write to the Major."

You watch him for a moment, looking for a hint of a lie. He steadily holds your gaze and betrays nothing.

"Whitehall and Jones."

"I've had the displeasure of meeting the latter," he says, his face twisting like he bit into something sour.

You frown. "Ladder?"

"La _tt_ er. Say you have…" He trails off and sets the roll of red gauze and the roll of blue gauze in front of you. "Okay. You have the red gauze and the blue gauze. The red gauze would be the _former_  because you mention it first. The blue gauze would be the  _latter_  because you mention it last. Make sense?"

You nod and poke the blue gauze with one of your splints, then you look up at The Doctor. "So why is Hughes sad?"

The Doctor sighs again and scratches his head, closing his black eyes that aren't quite so creepy anymore. "He was leading a squad. Outside. He was the only one that made it back."

You are very quiet for a time. Squad death is mission failure, excepting a handful of special circumstances no one has seen fit to tell you or—near as you can tell—anyone else. Everyone knows that. That's why you start team drills four months from now, in February, with the other girls in your barracks.

If  _Hughes_  could fail, where did that leave you?

You remember Taylor and Valdez's bet and with a cold trickle down your spine realize they may not be wrong.

You look at The Doctor and the words that come out of your mouth are not your own, but ones you've heard repeated countless times by soldiers. "When's the service?"

He smiles in the way you've come to recognize isn't happy or malicious, but something stuck between sad and angry, and says, "Don't worry about that, Williams. They'll announce it in the cafeteria at dinner time."

The use of 'cafeteria' instead of 'Mess Hall' is a verbal speedbump, but you recover quickly.

Your deal only called for one answer, and you're almost certain Woolvey would call what you're about to ask insubordination, but you have to know.

"Why're you angry with him?"

The Doctor looks surprised, then one corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile.

"I suppose I wasn't very delicate about it, was I?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "That isn't something I can explain easily. It would take a while, and you need to get to your classes."

You sigh and drop the issue, getting out of your chair. The Doctor stands up and leads you to the main room. Hughes sits on one of the patient beds, with his head hung and his elbows on his knees. He doesn't look up.

"Show this to all of your instructors," The Doctor says as he scribbles something on a piece of paper, then hands it to you. You glance at it and lose interest when you can't read his handwriting.

You start to reach for the door, then remember your manners and turn back to him.

"Thank you," you say stiffly, and start to turn back. The Doctor places a hand on your shoulder and you stop.

"Will you make it to class okay?"

"I know the way," you reply. It's not a total lie; you know how to get back to the barracks, and from there you can get to your History class. There wasn't any point in heading to the Mess Hall this late in the morning, anyway.

"That's not what I asked."

You look up at him, then down at your hands.

"Whitehall and Jones won't touch me for a while," you eventually say. "I think they get scared, sometimes, of what they do."

The Doctor nods and runs a hand through his hair. "Use that."

"What?"

"Use their fear against them. Don't just take whatever they throw at you, but don't antagonize them, either. Show them that you aren't afraid of them. That'll scare them, and they'll probably leave you alone," he explains. You frown.

"But I  _am_  scared of them," you admit quietly.

The Doctor crouches down in front of you. "So don't let them see it. Fake it until it's true."

You think about it, then nod. You haven't tried it before; it might just work. "Okay."

He smiles and claps you on the shoulder, then stands and opens the door for you.

You start back to the barracks with a new sense of purpose and a tiny flicker of confidence starts to grow in your chest.

Your name is Ellie  _fucking_  Williams, you are almost six years old, and you will  _not_  fail another uniform inspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything in particular you guys would like to see, write it in the comments below.


End file.
